


Been Immortalized

by Vodkassassin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Night at the Museum (Movies)
Genre: Ahkmenrah has PTSD, F/M, Hadrian Potter-Black, Harry Potter's Name is Hadrian, Harry has PTSD, Here there be gay, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reapers, ahkmenrah is very attractive whoops, harry loves Rexy, harry says fuck you to england after the war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22821889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vodkassassin/pseuds/Vodkassassin
Summary: “It's been stressing Death out for ages, sometimes moving but not often. Started out in Egypt but hasn't been for a while. It's in America, now. Why not check it out?”“What will I be looking for, exactly?”“You'll know it when you see it. A small area, just a building. Life blooms in it every night, and ceases every morning until midnight, before it starts all over again. It's at a museum, in New York. They've got a night guard position open. A general would be the perfect fit for it, wouldn't you think?”
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ahkmenrah, Jedediah/Octavius (Night at the Museum), Theodore Roosevelt/Sacajawea (Night at the Museum)
Comments: 95
Kudos: 639





	1. Chapter 1

If you had asked Harry Potter what he was going to do after finishing off his nemesis Voldemort for good, he probably wouldn't have been able to tell you. He'd been fighting ol’ Snake Face for his entire life. Now that he didn't have to, he had no clue what to do with himself. 

What was a child soldier suppose to do once he was no longer needed? 

He could return to Hogwarts to finish his seventh year, like Hermione was. He could join Ron in entering the Auror Corps training program, like he was expected to. He could run off with Blaise and pursue a partnership in potion and alchemy entrepreneuring, like he was cautiously warned away from (still, nobody would be all too surprised if he _did_ , you see? Except, Zabini’s a _Slytherin_ , Harry...).

He’d throw them all a plot twist, per say, and do none of those things. 

Not everyone knew the exact story of what happened in the final Battle. Though, all sorts of them will tell you, of course, “Harry Potter became the new master of the elder wand, and used it’s unbeatable power to defeat You-Know-Who!” and “Harry Potter used strategic brilliance to outmaneuver the Death Eater forces and bring victory to the Light!” and “General Potter dueled the Dark Lord, and _won_.”

They didn’t know what really happened that night. No one does, actually.

Nobody but Hadrian Potter, and Death and all it’s Reapers.

Or… _his_ Reapers. 

At first, he’d been angry. Why did these things always happen to him? Why not anyone else? Harry Potter always seemed to get the short end of the stick, the end that came with serious missions where everyone relied on you to _do the right thing_ , and... piles of unending paperwork.

Paperwork was evil, and Harry Potter despised it. 

He’d moved on to bargaining next, having skipped right on over denial (he’d gotten used to it, you know? There’s no use denying the bad luck you always knew was capable of throwing you even more grief). Only to discover, what was this? There was no need to bargain because this whole “Master of Death” gig was not quite what he’d been expecting?

He’d like to tell you that the depression came next, but then he’d be lying. He’d always had that. It had only gotten heavier since.

The only thing left was acceptance, and, considering where he was at that very moment, Hadrian considered himself very accepting of the circumstances. 

“What brought you across the pond?”

_It was a bloodbath._

_The soles of his boots were soaked in the stuff, he knew he'd never be able to get rid of it. It would literally haunt his every footstep from this point forward, something that he knew he deserved. Looking over his shoulder at every turn, wand up his sleeve in an invisible scabbard, waiting._

_Their faces swam before his vision, two for each. The same people never looked so apart from their own visages. They were alive, laughing. And then there was the other, cold and still. They followed him, too._

_More faces, only these ones are alive. Asking, “Harry, what's the hold up, mate?” and “You need to plan for your future, now.” It was stifling. He couldn't breath._

He smiled serenely. “I just needed a… change in scenery.”

“And your experience in this field?”

_Late nights, often staring at nothing, but knowing there could always be something. Something dangerous, something that meant death. Huddled around the campfire, sometimes not because it was too dangerous for even that, so- cold night, huddled closer for warmth that wouldn't come, eyes always vigilant, searching the darkness. Guarding._

_Leaves rustling, footstep stumbling, shoes squeaking, one mistake. Flashes of light, colors of urgent, be alert, painful, dive!_

“Oh, plenty. I’ve headed security for several projects.” 

“Your past employers have commented staunchly on your trustworthiness.” 

_Trust? Password, ask them for a phrase. It's their face, but what if it isn't? If they get it wrong, they're dead anyway._

“Of course. What about your education?”

_“Harry, please listen to me!” She pleaded. Or demanded. It could be both, knowing her. “You really should finish your schooling, why not come back with me? Think about it, an entire year that's just… normal!”_

“... Six years in a military training school would suffice for this, I should think. Shouldn’t it?”

_It was never normal, and why couldn't she understand that? Faces, always staring. Accusing, in awe, in anger, some even in fear. He wanted nothing to do with it._

“And why should I hire you?”

_They'd be smiling, perhaps, if their faces weren't nearly completely obscured by the shadows of their hoods. A voice that didn't make a sound, always cheerful, emanating from within._

_“Master, there's something that might interest you.”_

_“Yes,” another, identical, agreed. “It's been a point of puzzlement for us, for quite a while now. A place that interferes with the Circle.”_

_“And not in the way you might be thinking, either! We deal in Death, as you well know. But this place, a bubble of the opposite! We can't tell where it's coming from, and we can't enter it. So strange! All we can do is watch from afar, but our observations have brought us nothing.”_

_“You, though,” a third peers at him, nose to his nose. “You could enter. See what all the fuss is about. It's been stressing Death out for ages, sometimes moving but not often. Started out in Egypt but hasn't been for ages. It's in America, now.”_

_“Why not check it out? It'll give you something to do, and get you away from… all the undesired attention. Win-win, right?”_

_“What will I be looking for, exactly?”_

_“You'll know it when you see it. A small area, just a building. Life blooms in it every night, and ceases every morning until midnight, before it starts all over again. Strange thing is, though; there's no output of death. The life appears, then disappears, out of absolutely nowhere. Boggles the mind.”_

_“Should be easy enough to get looking,” the first informed him mischievously. “It's at a museum, in New York. They've got a night guard position open. A general would be the perfect fit for it, wouldn't you think?”_

Another smile.

“Well… you _do_ need me.”

The curator, McPhee, slapped the file on the desk that sat between them. He lifted a hand and rubbed at his eyes. 

“That's true, yes,” his fellow Englishman signed. “That's not the point, though— listen, all I'm asking is the standard interview for a new employee, you get it?”

“I do,” Hadrian Potter-Black replied quickly, amiable smile never leaving his face. “You're only doing your job, of course. To be more efficient, though, why not get straight to the root of it? You need a security guard. I can do that. Job done, right?”

“Job _to_ be done,” McPhee corrected. “But… well, you're not wrong. Alright then?”

“Alright.”

“Brilliant, you're hired.” The curator stamped something down on the file and signed another page off with a flourish. He spun it around and offered his new employee the pen. Hadrian took it graciously, and they set about getting the paperwork filled. 

“Don't duff around, and we'll get along fine, yes?”

“I couldn't agree more.”

And that was the end of it, really. 

One could hope, after all. 

  
  


**XXX**

  
  


It was a nice place, two streets down from Central Park. The location made it busy, sure, and at times it could get a bit crowded, but that's what Hadrian liked about his apartment. The walls were thick, and sound had it's own trouble trying to penetrate such guards. 

That wasn't to say he was safe from sounds inside its walls, however. 

“No, ‘Mione, listen—“ the young Black pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a quick breath. “I already _told_ you, didn't I? I said— no, that is _not_ what I said and you know it… What? I never promised such a thing! Why would you think…? Just because— Ronald Weasley, you give Hermione back her cell right this instant, _no I am not going to argue with you_ _about this—_ right, I'm hanging up—“

With an explosive sigh, Hadrian slammed the phone back into its cradle, rubbing his face with his hands. He tilted himself backwards and leaned against the polished wood of the walls, praying for patience. From _who_ , exactly, was still up for debate, but for now the prayer floated there, without ties, hopefully to reach some deity that might ease his anxiety a precious few moments. 

He purses his lips and cast a glance at the window, peering through the gap in the curtains to see the bright lights of New York outside, the sky beyond them just beginning to darken for evening. Checking his watch, he saw that it was 7:30, nearing the beginning for his new job. 

He pushed off the walls and made his way to the door, slipping on a dark navy uniform jacket. Grabbing his keys from the bowl on the shelf next to the coat stand, he made one last cursory glance over his new abode before turning his back and exiting. 

It was time to see just what it was about this museum that got his Reapers’ knickers in a bunch. 

  
  


**XXX**

  
  
  


“Naw, Mr. Frederick was my father,” Mr. Frederick told him amiably. “Call me Cecil.” He had a rough voice, like sandpaper against gravel. 

Hadrian raised a brow as the snowy-haired head of security- or rather, _ex_ -head of security- opened the lower half of the door and captured his hand and gave it a good shake in greeting. He tightened the hold and returned the gesture. 

“Nice good handshake,” Cecil noted, pleased. “I like that. Tells a lot about a man.”

It absolutely did. A weak handshake showed a person that was either too conscious of their own strength, had trouble with commitment, or didn't think much of you. A tight grip coupled with a strong arm showed that the person either had something to prove or wished to intimidate.

That Frederick’s handshake was a bit too rough and unrefined for Hadrian’s tastes, he didn't voice aloud. 

“Come on in,” he allowed himself to be manhandled past the threshold instead. 

As he followed Frederick to the back, the man clapped his hands together. 

“Let's tap turkey here,” he started off, with some odd American idiom that Hadrian couldn't make heads nor tails of. He sat behind a cluttered desk and turned an imploring gaze up at the younger man. 

“The museum is losing money, hand over fist. Guess kids these days aren't all that interested in wax figures or stuffed animals. So they're downsizing, which means they're firing the three security guards and replacing them with one new guard. You.”

Hadrian shrugged helplessly at him. 

“Sorry,” he said, not really feeling halfway sincere. 

Frederick shrugged, an overexaggerated move where his arms flailed out dramatically and his face took on a look of good-natured resignation. Hadrian resisted the urge to chuckle at him. 

“Well, what can you do? Oh! Here,” he jumped up from the office chair, surprisingly spry for an older man, “I’d like ya to meet my two colleagues- Reginald!”

Hadrian turned, to see two other men of elderly dispositions sitting across the room. Well, one was sitting, a dark man in a faded green recliner, with a newspaper unfolded across his lap, who glanced up as he was called. 

The other was sprawled out across a small, washed out couch, thin blanket tossed over his legs and snoring like a lawn mower. He was a shade or two paler than Frederick, with a receding hairline and a squat build. 

“Reginald! Ah,” Frederick cast the slumbering man an exasperated look, raising his voice. “ _Gus_!”

Hadrian twitched back slightly, nearly reaching for the firearm strapped against the small of his back, when the man suddenly came alive without warning, letting out a startled and loud holler.

“HA! WHERE IS ‘E? I’LL BEAT ‘IM WITH MY FIST!” Gus shouted, sitting upright. He blinked blearily and surveyed the room with a narrow-eyed glower. “I'll beat ‘im with my… _hrmn_ …” he broke off into indiscernible grumbling. 

Frederick glanced at Hadrian with an impossibly mirthful grin, as if sharing a joke, before turning back to his fellows. 

“Gus, Reginald.” He said, gesturing to the balding man, and the taller one still reclined lazily in his chair, respectfully. “Fella’s, this is Hadrian Black, the kid who wants to be the new night guard.”

Hadrian suppressed a sigh as he received two glance overs, one from a cautiously welcoming Reginald and another much more suspicious and surly from Gus. 

“Most important position in the museum, Hadrian!” Reginald greeted, nodding down at him. Hadrian tried his best not to bristle at the utterly unintended slight toward his height, knowing the older man hadn't meant anything at all. 

Sometimes his sensitivity to the fact was ridiculous, and he despaired at his own fragility. 

“He looks like a weirdo,” Gus commented tactfully. 

Hadrian raised an eyebrow. “I'm _British_ . To me, _you're_ the weird one.”

Frederick laughed. “Wonderful guard, terrible people skills. I do apologize for him.”

“No need, truly.”

Gus was undeterred. “Listen lunchbox, don't try anything funny. I once went nine rounds with John L. Sullivan!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hadrian caught Frederick glancing away and mouthing the words as they were spoken, and suppressed a smirk. 

“You’ve never fought John L. Sullivan in your life!” Reginald retorted. 

“Gentlemen,” Frederick attempted to take back the reins before the conversation got too off track. “We have a job candidate here, he- “

“Actually,” Hadrian cut in, “I _have_ already been hired.”

Frederick glanced over at him, for the first time appearing genuinely surprised.

“Have you, then?”

The young Lord Black tilted his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Reginald and Gus exchanged an unreadable look. 

“Well!” Frederick clapped his hands again, rubbing them together. “No need for an interview from us old geezers, is there? Right this way, kid- why don't you let me show you the ropes.”

“Of course.”

He followed Frederick back through the door and was led through a narrow hallway that opened up into a wing of the museum, separated only by a door with “employees only” painted on the other side of the blurry glass window. 

“Head on up to the second floor,” Frederick told him. “I'll meet you there. Gotta go slip my orthopedics on- arthritic knees, you know?”

“Comes with age, I suppose.”

Frederick chuckled good-naturedly, and disappeared back down the hallway and into the guard room. 

Hadrian turned around, intending to push through the door and enter the exhibits section of the museum, when a tap on his shoulder distracted him. 

He turned, and immediately went deadpan, “Thought you lot “couldn't enter the museum.’”

“We _can't_!” His reaper defended, a nearly scandalized expression in its voice. “We'd never lie to you, master!”

“What do you call this, then?”

“Well,” the thing took up a sly look, “we’re not exactly _in_ the museum, sir. This office is an adjacent wing, not actually part of the museum proper.”

“Right.” Hadrian replied flatly. “What do you want.”

His reaper brightened. “We said we'd contact you with new information, didn't we?”

“Spit it out, Clarence.”

“My name is _Chalance_...” Clarence pouted. “Alright, our watchers picked up on a sudden… well, there's no way to describe it other than ‘a sudden spike of power,’ the moment that you entered the museum yesterday.”

When he'd come for the interview with the curator. “What kind of power?”

“Similar to the readings on whatever it is that's causing this unnatural phenomenon.”

“And you still have no clue what that is?”

“Nope.”

“Some help you are, truly.”

Clarence pouted again. 

Hadrian shook his head. “So whatever strange magic that’s fooling around with the Cycle bylaws is, what, interested in me?”

“Sure is,” his Reaper leered. “We just thought you should know. Tread cautiously… is what I'd say if you were some normal human.”

“But I'm not.”

“But you're not,” it agreed. “This is just so you have all the facts, master. It's well known, how you hate being uninformed. We _do_ care about your sanity, you know.”

“You have a weird way of showing it, sometimes,” Hadrian murmured, glancing back down the hallway. Really, he should have left for the second floor several minutes ago. The fact that Frederick had yet to return, though, brought up some light suspicions that he couldn't bat away. 

Surely, it didn't take this long to slip in some orthopedics? 

“Thanks,” he tossed at his Reaper, who sent an overjoyed grin his way as he entered the museum’s large corridors. The skin along his shoulders tingled strangely as the herald of death disappeared back to its patrol. 

  
  


**XXX**

  
  


“I'm not really as spry as I used to be, kid,” Frederick warned him as they entered the Diorama room. 

Hadrian gazed around, interested to see the different tiny civilizations of history spread out for the exhibit. From his quick glance, he could name ancient Egypt, Rome, Greece, and even an old Western cowboy town. There was also a tiny Mayan civilization off to one side. The minuscule figures were frozen as they went about their daily lives, building pyramids, creating the fine arts, and wrangling cattle, all of them looking as serious as could be. 

They were adorable. 

He turned his attention back to his tour guide, and narrowed his eyes almost mockingly. “... You could have fooled me.”

“Could I?” Frederick looked almost delighted at what might have been taken as a compliment. “You flatter me, son. But I _am_ old, and a whole lot slower than I was at your age.”

He herded Hadrian through to the next exhibit, pointing out to the younger man another employee entrance nestled between the alcoves by the signs pointing to the restrooms that were apparently located down the hall from where they walked. 

“Take a left through there, and it'll lead you back to the guards locker room. There's another door outside the desert animal exhibit that does the same, just go right and take two left turns with that one. Don't use the one in the main lobby with the T-Rex, that one takes you to McPhee’s office, and,” Frederick cast him a furtive glance, lowering his voice, “he doesn't like people in there.”

Hadrian nodded, bemused. His fellow Englishman had indeed seemed quite territorial and, dare he say it, obsessively compulsive with his work space. 

Frederick showed him the spaces for the last few exhibits, and allowed Hadrian to look around for a little while before he and the others shut things down for the night. On the tour he was shown Attila and his Huns, the large stone Head from the popular Easter Island, and the African animals exhibit, where he was introduced to a stuffed monkey named Dexter that Frederick seemed to dislike for some reason. He was poking around the Native American exhibit, curious about the history despite himself, when the lights above were suddenly enveloped by darkness with a loud, mechanical click that echoed throughout the building. 

Although he'd been expecting it, Hadrian could help but stiffen, muscles going taught as he fell into a more ready stance. 

He blinked, and then relaxed, shaking his head at himself. He was about to turn to head back to the guard rooms when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. 

One of the Native figurines was trying to sneak out of its exhibit. 

Hadrian narrowed his eyes at it, but didn't turn his head. 

Suddenly, as he passed, it lurched out at him widely, and yelled, “AH!”

Hadrian jerked back, hand flying to the small of his back, before immediately sighing in exasperation and rolling his eyes. “Mr. Frederick, please.”

The older man laughed loudly as he tugged the headdress off. “Sorry, sorry. I couldn't help myself. Gotta let a grandpa like me have some childish fun sometimes, yknow?”

“You're not that old,” Hadrian protested, and received a embellished mock-fond smile from the ex-head of security. 

“I'm flattered you think so. Ah… moving on!” There came the hand clap. “This stuff is really old, so, aha, you… probably shouldn't play with it.”

Hadrian was amused. “I won't tattle, I promise.”

The older man brightened. “Great! Right, this way…”

He was led up a flight of stairs to the top floor, where the African exhibit was, and where the decor became more in tune with the dry continent. Frederic gestures him to the northern section, and showed him past two colossal black statues of the Egyptian god Anubis. 

Hadrian forcefully turned his mind away from the irony of entering a place guarded by the visages of a deity of death. 

In the chamber, lined with ancient slabs of stone etched with faded hieroglyphics, placed on a clean, minimalistic pedestal, was a guilted sarcophagus. 

“The tomb of the Pharaoh, Ahkmenrah.” Frederick announced, gesturing at the ancient coffin. “And right in there is the great king himself.”

The breath in Hadrian’s lungs stilled for a moment, and he felt his forearms tingle with his own innate magics.

Above the pharaoh’s sarcophagus, hanging on the wall in the place of honor, obviously having been deemed of great important by the archeologists that had dug it up, was a gold tablet. 

Unbidden, Hadrian's eyes surged with his power, and his vision went pale blue. All aside from the tablet, which shone bright golden light, as if it were a star. A tendril of that gleamed down and attached itself to a more dull but no less blinding ball of light that sat within the sarcophagus. 

Hadrian bit his lip. Obviously, this was what was created the blips in his Reaper’s readings. 

Of course it would be something left over from the notorious magics of Ancient Egypt. The great civilization was famous for impossible feats of the supernatural kind, and had gone down in history as one of the founding origins of magic itself. Artifacts of great power and mysterious academics from the old country still popped up to this day, and the archeologists and historians of the magical world all went mad with excitement every time they did. 

“-his most prized possession,” Frederick was saying, grandly, and Hadrian zeroed his attention in on the words, “the Tablet of Ahkmenrah.”

The Tablet gleamed, cheekily, as if it were winking at him. Hadrian shut off his mage sight with an ominous feeling building up within himself. 

“24-karat gold, that thing is,” Frederick commented wistfully, voice going soft. It sent off warning bells in Hadrian's head, and the young Brit turned to regard him carefully. 

Frederick caught his gaze, and grinned. “Must cost a fortune, right? Hey, let's head back to the lobby and get you situated, hm?”

Hadrian watched him walk ahead, eyes glued to the older man’s back. He narrowed them, and gnawed on his lip. As he followed, something in his core lurched, as if the tablet or something else near it were attempting to tug him back. 

Curious, all of it. 


	2. Chapter 2

Hadrian sat behind the long desk that circled around him, in the cavernous room of the main lobby. The ceiling vaulted over his head and, in the quiet of the emptied museum, every move he made made a sound that was amplified by ten. 

Stretching his arms over his head and turning to smother a yawn into the side of one of them, he blinked up at the large lights bearing down on his position. 

_ “Now, it can get a bit spooky here at night, so you might wanna…” Frederick cast him a strange smile, “put a few lights on.” _

They'd left him with the keys and one of those large black, metal torches that you could beat a man to death with, and he hadn't really been given the choice to turn the lights off in the first place. 

He could, he supposed, turn them off  _ now _ , but he didn't see the point. 

Well, of the lights above him, at least. Keeping lights on in the sections of the museum he was nowhere near had seemed a bit presumptuous, especially given the knowledge that the museum was down on funds. McPhee would appreciate him trying to bring down the numbers on the lighting bills, wouldn't he?

He lowered his upper body onto the desk, resting his head on the hard surface. He glanced down when he heard paper rustling beneath him. 

_ “Oh! I almost forgot!” Frederick exclaimed. He wrestled with his briefcase for a moment, before pulling out a rather disorganized file, if it could be called that. It was arranged like a packet, the left edges stapled messily together.  _

_ “The manual,” Frederick told him proudly, handing it over. Hadrian accepted it gingerly and gave it a once-over. “Step-by-step instructions on everything you need to know to get by here.” _

_ “Follow them in order,” Reginald told him seriously. “Get them done and done quickly, while the night’s still young, and you should be fine.”  _

_ “Don't skimp out,” Gus demanded, beady eyes hard and scowling.  _

Hadrian sat back with a stilted sigh, looking down at the mismatched papers. He hadn't opened it yet, and it was already 11:47. He should give it a read, really. Those men had been working at this museum for years. Whatever happened here every night, they probably were the closest to experts on it all, and how to get through it safely. Sure, they were muggles with no apparent knowledge of the magical world, but since when had that mattered? Humans tended to adapt, and Frederick, Reginald and Gus were bound to have come up with tactics to survive their jobs long enough to actually retire from it like this. 

He fingered the corner of the front page contemplatively. He'd never been one for reading. At the Dursleys, he'd longed to be allowed the right to books. In school, he'd been too conditioned by fear and pain to risk getting too close to the idea of reading. Hermione had always taken it upon herself to lead him through the toughest assignments. He supposed he should be grateful to her, but truly he wished she'd allowed him his own time to get over the fear of reprisal for daring to touch any research material to further his education. 

When he'd become the Master of Death, his Reapers had gladly taken over the job of reading reports aloud to him, and even walking him through figuring out solutions to small problems in the beginning. They were helpful little cretins, for sure, but…

Hadrian had never in his life been handed reading material and expected to go off and read it himself. It might seem a bit like he was spoiled, because he could do the actual reading part just fine, but it was more along the lines of the fact nobody had ever  _ allowed _ him to do it on his own before. 

He bit down on his lower lip and narrowed his eyes, thinking back to the large shelves of magical tomes that were currently displayed in his apartment behind a gentle Notice-Me-Not-ward. That was all it was, really. A display. Like the motionless ones that surrounded him here in the museum. Gathering dust, because no matter how much he longed to he just couldn't bring himself to even reach out and touch them. 

This, though. This was a small thing. He could try this. 

He flipped the cover page over, and blinked. 

_ 1) Throw the bone.  _

_ 2) Lock up the Lions, or they will eat you. _

_ 3) Double-check your belt. The monkey probably stole your keys. _

_ 4) Tie the horses to the bench.  _

_ 5) Muffle the Mummy. He scares the others… _

Hadrian slowly leaned back in his chair, letting out a drawn sigh and regarding the manual laid out on the table carefully. 

From the way it was written, and the instructions it contained, it almost seemed as if...

The young Brit cast a furtive glance across the room, and nearly blanched. The stage that the T-Rex skeleton was set up on was suspiciously  _ empty _ . 

_ “And the most important thing to remember,” Frederick informed him seriously, a guileless smile on his face that didn't match his tone, “is to not let anything in… or out.” _

The museum came to life at night. 

Hadrian felt like crying. He leaned over the desk again and buried his face into his hands, utterly embarrassed. 

How the  _ fuck _ had a giant skeletal  _ dinosaur _ managed to magically come to life and sneak out of the goddamned room  _ without him noticing _ ?!

Hadrian quietly despaired. Weren't his carefully honed reflexes too good for that?  _ He'd trained them to be too good for that! Constant fucking Vigilance, Potter-Black! _

The wizard savior jumped up from his seat, leapt over the lobby desk, and sprinted across the hall to the corridor to his right, where the sounds of running and splashing water were coming from. 

The water fountain? Why would a skeleton need water? Somehow animated or not, it was still a  _ skeleton _ , right? It was  _ dead _ .

Turning the corner quickly, Hadrian stopped dead in his tracks, staring incredulously. The dinosaur skeleton- and yes it was  _ all  _ bones, so there went the idea of it coming to  _ true _ life- was indeed attempting to take a drink. 

Hadrian stared silently at the spectacle, watching as the water splashed across the dinosaur’s lower jaw bone and streamed down, dropping onto the floor in a cascade of droplets. Yet, it still persisted. Every now and then, it moved its head back to look down at the fountain with a morose, eyeless gaze. 

_ Aw _ . Hadrian internally cooed.  _ It looks so sad… _

He blinked at the thing as it tried once more for a drink, and covered his mouth, feeling as a blush began to rise in his cheeks. 

“You're so  _ adorable _ ,” he cooed gently. The T-Rex, apex predator of the Prehistoric Age, jerked up from the fountain and regard him with a curious head tilt, like a startled but interested wolf catching sight of a deer. 

“Aww…”

Hadrian took a few steps forward and reached out a hand with a grin. “You're just thirsty, aren't you big guy?”

Rex lowered its head to the ground and gave a low rumbling growl, despite not having any vocal chords or throat muscles left. Hadrian likened it to a puppy about to pounce on a toy. 

“Adorable,” he breathed again, a wide grin stretching across his face. “C’mere, boy! Let's play fetch!”

_ 1) Throw the bone _

_ Of course.  _

  
  


**XXX**

  
  


Disappointingly, Rexy the T-Rex was the only exhibit that Hadrian encountered for the beginning of that night. Every so often, as he played with the heart-melting dinopuppy, he'd catch sight of movement out of the corners of his eyes. Sometimes he turned in time to see the back of a wax figure or mannequin dressed in the fashion of some ancient or other historical time period, as they hurried away from the vantage point they'd been watching him from, but none of them actually approached him. Hadrian felt a little let down by the fact. 

Most of all, he was  _ bored _ . Sure, playing fetch with an adorable dinosaur was exciting and all- it  _ wagged _ its  _ tail _ !- and Rex really was probably the cutest thing Hadrian had ever fallen in love with, but…

Really, when you come from a culture of the fantastical, the magical, an animated skeleton wasn't all  _ that _ impressive. Hadrian, having just come out of a war, the past few years consisting of nothing but battles and life-or-death strategies, was  _ bored _ . 

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw that he had a text from an unknown number. 

It obviously wasn't Hermione or Ron trying to reach him from someone else's phone since he'd blocked theirs from his own before he'd even crossed the ocean. When he went to check the caller ID, no number was displayed at all. 

Reaching out to pet Rex’s snout as the skeleton came up to him inquisitively, Hadrian tapped open the text to find out what the mystery was. 

_ [u might wanna check on the Egyptian, master ;*] _

Hadrian rolled his eyes so hard it gave him a headache, both at the kissy emoji and the fact that his Reapers were now  _ texting _ him, of all things, and generally acting like teenage girls while doing it. He was so embarrassed by the fools sometimes. 

He checked his watch. 4:17am. That gave him enough time to hop on up to the Egyptian exhibit and see whatever it was they wanted him to see.

  
  


**XXX**

  
  


Hadrian chuckled helplessly, hands pressed against his mouth to conceal a grin as the faceless fabric soldiers that surrounded all puffed out their chests proudly. 

He'd been accosted by Confederates while making his way to the African exhibit to follow through with his Reapers’ advice. The pretty Native American woman behind the glass had momentarily distracted him on his journey, and they'd had a wonderfully entertaining conversation by way of charades and guesswork. She was apparently very annoyed with the repetitive arguments that continued between two of her fellow displaymates, Lewis and Clark. 

The men had appeared entirely affronted at the accusation, rushing to show Hadrian just how much they  _ obviously _ got along. They'd reminded him of the Weasley twins, which had made the night guard bite his lip and stare at the ground, wishing the memories of their loss away. 

He said  _ their _ , because although George yet lived… you couldn't really have the Weasley twins with just one of them, could you? 

That was when the Confederates had taken him captive. 

They'd been having a rather theatrical battle, with real gunshots and everything, against their opponents the Union soldiers, and it had been one of the topics of conversation between him and Sacajawea. They'd both been rather amused at how dramatic they enacted their deaths to be when they were shot or stabbed, especially seeing as they  _ could _ get right back up and continue the battle. Rather, most of them stuck to the honor of realism, and stayed dead until the battle had a clear winner. Wherein they then began it all over again.  _ Funny _ .

The Confederate soldiers, seeing Hadrian looking so morose, had apparently decided they didn't like such a response from their audience, despite the fact Hadrian had tried to assure them it wasn't  _ them _ who'd made him sad at all. No, they'd taken him behind their makeshift battlements and played at protector as the Union soldiers attempted to break their makeshift fortress and retrieve him. 

It was a game of Keep Away, and whichever side had Hadri in their custody by the end of the battle, whenever that was, became the victors. 

The hilarity of being a captive/damsel in distress had turned Hadrian's mood right around, sufficiently distracting him from less appealing thoughts. He'd burst into laughter some minutes ago, and was just beginning to settle down. 

The Confederates had him at the moment, meaning they won for this round, which had apparently ended the second Hadrian had began giggling. Faceless soldiers from both sides gathered around him and enacted several charades together to keep him laughing. Hadrian was rather touched by the gestures. 

“You're all very sweet,” he told them, grinning as their shoulders straightened and each and every one of them took on a proud stance. He laughed. 

“I really do have to go now, though. I have someone I need to check on. Don't worry though!” He hurriedly added when they dropped, looking so sad even without faces that it tugged on his heart strings and made him feel so  _ guilty _ . “I'll come back later! Maybe we can reenact the Battle of Appomattox?”

This made them brighten, and he received approving claps on the back and even a few fond rufflings of his hair as they all stood to move back to their places and begin their battle again. 

He stood as well, and waved goodbye to Sacajawea, who gave him a lovely smile in farewell. 

“Please try not to make a big mess!” He called over his shoulder as he left. Every featureless cotton face turned to regard him curiously, battle stances at the ready. 

He smiled, “I'd rather not be fired on my first day on the job, you know? Ta!”

  
  


**XXX**

  
  


“I’m really sorry,” Hadrian told the sulking head gently, “but I don’t have any chewing gum for you.”

“Awwww,” The giant stone Easter Island Head grumbed. “But me want gum-gum...”

The wizard pursed his lips pityingly, arms crossed over his chest as he contemplated this new situation.

“Would you like for me to bring you some tomorrow night?” Or,  _ tonight _ . It was already tomorrow. 

The head brightened up. “Dum-dum bring me gum-gum… tomorrow?”

It was Hadrian’s turn to pout. “Well, not if you insist on insulting my intelligence like this. My name is Hadri. Calling me “dum-dum” hurts my feelings, you see?”

“... Oh.” The head - Hadrian really should find a nickname for it - humphed in realization. “Me sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Hadrian bit his lip to conceal his grin. It was like dealing with Teddy, almost. “I’ll meet you first thing after playing with Rex tomorrow night, okay?”

“With gum-gum?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you, dum-dum.”

Hadrian coughed. 

“Me sorry, Dri-dri.”

“...  _ Aw _ .”

  
  


**XXX**

  
  


The monkey had stolen his keys, just as the list had foretold.

Really, though, he’d been distracted with playing with the lions, giant kittens that they were. He should have been paying more attention, especially since he’d been given fair warning. So, this predicament that he found himself in was his own fault.

“Dexter,” he began calmly. “Please, may I have my keys back?”

Dexter chirped at him almost mockingly, waving the aforementioned ring of metal in the air. They jingled, and the other monkeys, beyond the gate he’d just closed to keep the lions in their own habitat (they were cute, but still dangerous and he’d rather they not escape to terrorize the other exhibits), all cheered with their monkey laughter and clapping.

“Dexter,” he tried again. “I really need those to get into the Egyptian exhibit, it’s locked. Give them back.”

The cheeky little thing stuck out it’s tongue at him. 

“Dexter!”

Hadrian’s shoulder’s slumped as he watched the tiny capuchin climb higher up on the gate, aiming for where it met the marble arch above. A low, gravelly purr, about seven times louder and deeper than from your average housecat, sounded to his left. He glanced down as the alpha lion of the museum’s pride rubbed his thick, fuzzy, maned head against Hadrian’s side.

Lions were very large. But the fact that this one reached above Hadrian’s elbow was almost depressing to note. He drooped even more, and reached out to run a hand through the finely groomed hair. The purring continued.

He looked up as Dexter jingled the keys at him again, purposefully, trying to catch his attention. The monkey was a little like Draco back in their younger days. It nearly made him want to smile just as much as it made him want to start screaming and thrash the nearby furniture. 

He decided on giving a low groan instead. It announced his ire, and the small meaningless smile that played at the corner of his mouth might ease any hurt feelings it has instilled, for those who did not spot the steel edge beneath it. 

The giant cat at his side, who he’ll name Simba just because he was  _ that  _ unimaginative, gave a inquisitive rumble, that was echoed thrice fold. He looked over to see that the leader and the rest of his pride were all gazing up at him, curious as to why he’d made such an unhappy sound.

Looking back at Dexter, who chittered mockingly, Hadrian’s brows furrowed slightly. Truly, one could say he could just use his magic to summon the keys back to him, and soak Dexter with a quick  _ Aguamenti  _ just to soothe his nerves, but- 

No, he couldn’t. Because, firstly, it would be largely unfair. And secondly, he wasn’t exactly  _ suppose  _ to be using his magic right now.

You could say he was ill. Or, closer; he had a temporary condition. The fact of the matter was, when Hadrian had become Master of Death and inherited the massive power that came with it, his already bloated magical core had been absolutely flooded. He’d been ordered by an actually  _ very  _ concerned Death not to, under any circumstances, use his magic  _ in any way _ until his core and power channels had settled down and grown accustomed to the influx of power.

Hadrian scrunched his nose at Dexter, and did the next best thing. This one  _ always  _ worked with Teddy, without fail.

Casting the lions a cursory glance, Hadrian plopped down on the floor, lotus style, and buried his face into his hands, shoulders trembling.

The lions made inquisitive growly sounds. A nearby giraffe bumped the top of his head with the side of its own, checking on him. A snake slithered around his ankle, and asked if the speaker was alright?

Hadrian listened carefully. From the sound of it, Dexter had entered back into the exhibit, and was approaching cautiously. He gave a loud, questioning chirp, and Hadrian allowed himself to sniffle a bit.

Dexter reared back with a loud screech, his monkey laugh ringing in Hadrian’s ears and he scurried away. The mocking jeer came again, but Hadrian didn’t let himself look up. Instead, he pressed his palms into his eyes hard enough to see stars, and let out a quiet whine.

Simba gave a concerned rumble, nudging his shoulder with his forehead. Hadrian snuffled again, and could almost feel as the lions all turned as one to glare at the offending capuchin. Dexter screeched again, and then darted forward.

_ The idiot approachesss _ ! The snakes at his feet hissed in alarm, and Hadrian nearly giggled at it. He let the sound come out, twisting it to sound sad instead. 

Dexter leapt at his head and practically jammed the ring of jingling keys into his ear, persistently until Hadrian’s hand shot up to catch them. He peered at the suddenly fretful monkey at his shoulder with bleary eyes, and gave a purposefully watery smile.

“Y-You’re giving them back to me?” He asked, making his voice quiet and fragile-sounding. 

Dexter ate it up like it was a treat, nodding his little monkey head in frantic motions, up and down, up and down, again. Hadrian let a wide grin cross his face, and hugged the tiny animal to his chest, almost snickering as Dexter went completely still at the surprise grab.

“Oh, thank you, Dexter!” He cried. “I thought you would never give them back ever again, and I was so worried!”

After a few moments, Dexter gave a quiet croon and almost melted into Hadrian’s embrace. He made small, pleased noises in his monkey babble. Hadrian hugged him tighter and giggled.

“Aw, you’re pretty cute, aren’t you?” He asked the little guy. Dexter’s head snapped up to gaze at him with impossibly large, round eyes. A second later, he nodded avidly. 

“We’ll be friends, then!” Hadrian announced grandly, and allowed the monkey to shoot out of his arms and up a nearby tree in excitement, chattering loudly so all the exhibit could hear.

Hadrian laughed, amused as he stood and hooked the ring of keys on his belt. He gave the lions a few good pat downs, listening to them all purr in appreciation, before edging his way out of the exhibit.

“Bye, Dexter!” He waved as he danced around a mammoth at the gate, shutting it behind him. “I’ll see you later!”

Dexter the monkey waved happily back, the movement jerky in his monkey-like gestures.

Hadrian spun around and dashed past the Huns that were scouring the north corridors, heading down left instead to the elevator. He’d rather not deal with the excitement of the Mongol warriors tonight.

  
  


**XXX**

  
  


“You seem to be something of an authority around here,” Hadrian commented to a mustachioed man he’d seen earlier, riding on horseback through the halls. 

The horse was nearby, grazing quietly on the fake grass that sprouted from a nearby Native American exhibit. Hadrian was interested to note that, while the creature did indeed chomp down and tug, chewed and swallowed, it didn’t actually take any of the grass into its mouth. How peculiar.

“I’m sorry?” Mr. Mustache startled, pulling back from his binoculars and peering at him through circular spectacles that gave the wizard flashbacks to his childhood.

“The other exhibits seem to respect you,” Hadrian repeated.

“They - oh!” the man gave a warm and friendly smile, eyes shining with mirth. “You're the new night-watchman!”

“That’s me,” Hadrian intoned, rocking up on his toes and back down. He crossed his arms, almost hugging himself, and cast Mustache-and-Horse a curious look. “Hadrian Black.”

The man gave an exaggerated bow, and spoke as he rose from it. “Theodore Roosevelt, twenty-sixth president of these United States. Pleased to make your acquaintance!”

“Pleasure is all mine, Mr. Roosevelt,” Hadrian replied, accepting the handshake. This one had ten times the honor behind it than his one with Frederick. “President? That’s like… America’s prime-minister, isn’t it?”

“Ah, a fellow from across the pond, are we?” Roosevelt asked, with a wink. “Should have guessed by your accent, of course, of course. Yes! A lot like your prime minister, I should say!”

“I’m absolutely fascinated,” Hadrian joked, not unkindly. Roosevelt laughed, a deep belly laugh that made it obvious he was enjoying himself utterly. Hadrian found himself liking him immediately.

“Since you seem to be an authority, here,” He continued, getting to the reason he’d approached this man in the first place, “could you tell me, why exactly is this all happening? You cant think it’s normal, can you?”

Roosevelt’s faced morphed into something more serious. He clicked his tongue to call his horse back to him, and sighed. “No, of course not, my dear boy. Come, then, there’s something I will show you.”

“Is it in the Egyptian exhibit?”

“Why, yes! How did you guess?”

“I had some clues.”

Roosevelt mounted his horse, kicking his leg over the sandle as he hopped up in one smooth motion, born of a lifetime of habit. He reached a hand down to haul Hadrian up with him, and the wizard settled down in the seat behind him, wrapping his arms around the wax-man’s waist.

“Mr. Roosevelt?” He asked quietly as the president spurred the horse forward with a gentle squeeze of his knees and a tug on the reigns.

“Yes, Hadrian?”

“I’d rather you not call me ‘dear boy.’”

The taller male cast him a strange glance over his shoulder, but nodded nonetheless. He must have spotted something in Hadrian’s expression, because his face smoothed out.

“But, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely girlfriend PurpleButtons0203 was eager for an update and I can’t say no to her (I was also eager to update, so like, yeah)


	3. Chapter 3

“This is the cause of all the commotion you have witnessed here tonight.” Hadrian was ushered into the exhibit after unlocking it, and his guess about the strange tablet and it’s connection to the mummy within the sarcophagus was confirmed by a uncharacteristically solemn Roosevelt. 

That wasn’t quite what was so worrying, however. Ancient Egyptian magic was nothing to squint at, of course, but Hadrian’s attention was solely captured by the rattling coffin, the banging, and the persistent screaming coming from inside it.

From what Roosevelt had hollered at the mummy when they’d first entered, it had been locked from the outside for fifty-four years, as apparently this was one of the rules of the museum. Hadrian thought back to what he’d read in the manual Frederick had given him. 

_ 5) Muffle the mummy, he scares the others _ .

It didn’t seem altogether fair, though. Why were the rest of them all allowed to roam free when the pharaoh had to suffer trapped in such a confined space, in darkness, completely aware of himself and his predicament, every night? From what Hadrian gathered, this tablet traveled with the pharaoh as part of one exhibit, since it was found with the sarcophagus. Meaning that, if the coffin had been sealed this entire time, Ahkmenrah had been trapped in his own grave for thousands of years.

Hadrian thought back to the decade and a year he’d spent in a cupboard, considered it as his only space for millennia, and shuddered. He wasn’t sure he’d have been able to stand even a few weeks, let alone however long Ahkmenrah had been confined.

“It was brought here in 1952 from the Nile expedition,” Roosevelt told him, gaze fixed on the tablet as he entirely ignored the muffled screaming. Hadrian glanced at him, unsettled. He was beginning to find it a bit difficult to draw in breaths. 

“One that night,” the president continued, oblivious of Hadrian’s thoughts, “everything in this museum came to life. And every night since.”

“I’d sort of gathered that, already,” Harian commented, and Roosevelt blinked, nonplussed. “Though, the context is nice, so thank you.”

“... How did you?” The president asked, curiosity so strong that it nearly physically manifested in his eyes, gleaming off his glasses. “That’s not… something you’d have just guessed at, no matter the clues you’ve come across in your night here.”

“Yes, and no,” Hadrian gave a secretive smile. “I won’t ask you if you believe in magic, Mr. Roosevelt, since I do think that this entire situation, and you yourself, proves it to be real enough.”

“Magic?” Roosevelt asked,baffled. He shook his head, quickly. “Well, I meant to say, yes, of course. I am a wax figure come to life as a living human being, it certainly is a bit telling. But, if what you mean is… you?”

“Me. I am a member of a very secretive civilization, one that exists on the outskirts of human society.”

“Are you not?”

“Human? No, I  _ am _ human. Just, with a little something extra - something that allows my kind to do some rather extraordinary things. One of those things is how I knew that this tablet was doing something to all of you, to bring you to life like that.”

“If you already knew, then why did you come to me?”

“To confirm it. It was only a guess, after all.” Hadrian’s brow pinched as he glanced over at the still-rattling sarcophagus. “...Mr. Roosevelt, may I ask you something?”

“Of course, Mr. Black.”

“Hadrian, please. Why must the sarcophagus remain locked?”

“Hm?” The president seemed surprised at the question.

Hadrian turned his frown on the other man, who blinked. “It doesn’t seem fair, is all. What did he do, that he’s forbidden to roam around like the rest of you?”

“Well, I…” Roosevelt trailed off, seemingly befuddled by the question. “It’s just always been like that. He’s dangerous, to me and the others. He doesn’t have the best of intentions, I suppose, so we keep the sarcophagus shut, and him in it.”

“Yes, but what did he do?”

“Er- what do you mean?” 

Hadrian sighed, and rephrased his question. “I mean, who told you that he was-  _ evil _ ? For lack of a better word.”

Roosevelt shifted where he stood, from one foot to the other as he attempted to wrangle up his words. “The nightguards. The old ones, I mean. They would always say it was... undesirable to have the pharaoh roam free. That he be kept in here, and away from everything else was one of their most paramount efforts.”

“So, he didn’t actually do anything at all?” Hadrian scowled. This didn’t bode well at all.

“Well, no.”

“Right, then.” The wizard nodded decisively, and strode forward with purpose. He immediately began fiddling with the pins that held the coffin closed. The screaming from inside it grew quieter, it’s occupant perhaps curious at the new noises being so close.

“Hadrian?” Roosevelt yelped in alarm, rushing forward to grab the younger man’s wrists. “What are you  _ doing _ , boy?”

“Correcting a wrong,” Hadrian said firmly, jerking his arms out of the hold with fervor. He cast an unhappy look on the uneasy and slightly panicked expression that adorned the president’s face. “And, please, do  _ not  _ call me ‘boy.’”

It wasn’t quite Roosevelt’s fault, Hadrian mused as he slid the pins out of their places. He’d been told something by what supposedly surmounted as his guardians, the night guards, and had had no reason to disbelieve them for it. Being told something was dangerous to you for such a long time, it was no wonder Roosevelt was so frightened at the prospect of letting the mummy loose.

“Hadrian, please,” Roosevelt pleaded. “I understand what you’re saying, really I do. But, my friend, could you perhaps- ?”

Hadrian paused, hand on the second to final pin of the sarcophagus’ locks. It’s shaking had ceased, the banging having stopped sometime after he wrestled the third pin free. Quiet, foreign murmuring came from within and, though it sounded vaguely familiar (he caught a few muffled syllables that reminded him of Bill Weasley when he started cursing after the third bottle of firewhiskey), he couldn’t for the life of him make it out.

“We have no knowledge of what this creature might do once freed,” Roosevelt continued, nervously. “Perhaps he is innocent, an idea I can see you are so obviously taken with, but... what if he is  _ not _ ?”

Hadrian closed his head, fingering the pin beneath his fingers thoughtfully. The president wasn’t entirely incorrect in his fears. Hadrian had no way of knowing whether there wasn’t a legitimately good reason as to  _ why _ exactly the pharaoh was locked up like this. There could have been a reason.

But he didn’t know that reason, whatever it was. The previous night guards had not seen fit to tell him it. For such a big issue, Hadrian found that very suspicious. This entire thing didn’t sit right with him, at all.

“I just cannot justify taking such a risk as to- “

“Fine,” Hadrian said, and Roosevelt sputtered to a stop.

“Excuse me?”

“I said,” the wizard stood, taking his hand away from the sarcophagus, and turned to face the wax man, “ _ fine _ . I’ll stop now.”

He saw Roosevelt relaxed almost imperceptibly. “I- thank you, Hadrian. Perhaps at a later time, when we have more information…”

“I understand,” Hadrian said shortly. 

He pivoted on his heel and circled around the ornate, ancient coffin, whose occupant’s muffled voice had died down considerably. He stepped behind it and peered carefully up at the oh-so-innocent looking tablet, with its nine squares set in it’s frame, hanging precariously on their axes, and it’s intricately carved hieroglyphics. It looked so delicate, and breakable. But, when he allowed his magic, eager and hungry for action but not allowed to leave his body as it was, into his eyes for his Mage sight, he saw an entirely different story.

“Hadrian?”

The wizard waved absently at the president, who was still standing a good several feet away from both the strangely quiet sarcophagus and its tall, stone, jackal guards.

“I’m just taking a look at this thing. It’s fascinating. The runic alignments alone are just—well. Nothing within your purview, I’d assume? You can go ahead and return to stalking your native princess, I’ll be fine.”

Ignoring the sputtering president, Hadrian stood on his tiptoes and braced a hand against the wall the tablet hung on, trying for a closer view. He was quiet taken with the craftsmanship of the piece. Ancient Egypt was well regarded for its refined culture and gorgeous artifacts. It’s people certainly had enjoyed the finer things in life.

And in death, actually. He had a few Reapers who apparently used to be inhabitants of the  _ Aaru _ , or the Field of Reeds, what was essentially the Egyptian Heaven. They’d been soldiers in life, and the finery and luxurious state of their deaths had made them twitchy for some action. They were quite posh, all things considered. Reminded him a bit of Zacharias Smith, minus the bratty qualities that the boy had unfortunately retained into adulthood.

He narrowed his eyes, gaze zeroing in on the first square of the second row. Its depiction of the  _ Wedjat _ , or Eye of Horus symbol, was both spectacularly carved and glowing a deep, saturated blue. The blue shone from the final square of the top row, which Hadrian was for now guessing represented a  _ Ba _ , which was basically the representation of a person’s soul. He’d have to contact Bill later and ask for more in depth information.

The cerulean aura of both squares were feeding into the stream of magic he’d spotted earlier, that tied itself to the pharaoh inside the sarcophagus. Curious now, Hadrian’s fingers twitched, and he began to wish he’d brought a notebook with him so he could copy the symbols and send them off to the eldest Weasley when he wrote the man later tonight.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and the skin of his forearms tingled insistently. Hadrian frowned, rubbing at them as he slowly turned to face the rest of the room. He narrowed his eyes and glanced around, trying to spot what had nudged his instincts so. Roosevelt had seemingly vanished back to watch Sacajawea like a creep (poor man, though; so shy! It was  _ almost  _ cute), so it wasn’t the president. The twenty-foot-tall jackal guards were sitting in the larger section of the Egyptian exhibit, just beyond the smaller room that housed the sarcophagus. They both sat lotus style, staring at one another. Hadrian couldn’t tell if it was out of boredom, or if they were just like that.

He moved on to glance at the large stone reliefs that lined the room, but froze. Spine straightening, he directed his gaze on the ancient coffin not two feet away from himself. It’s occupant had been being suspiciously quiet ever since the end of Hadrian’s discussion with Roosevelt. There had been small murmurings from within it that had eventually began to trail off, but now the sounds had vanished entirely.

Hadrian crept up to the side of the sarcophagus, silently, and leaned forward to hover over it. Staring down at it indecisively, his brows furrowed and he pressed his ear to the heavy, gilded stone of it’s lid.

There was a muffled shift from inside. All was quiet, before a heavy, ragged gasp came from beneath. Then another, before the pharaoh seemed to choke on his own breaths, or the burial clothes, or something else. There came a cough, and then another shaky, wretched gasp, and- 

_ Oh _ .

Hadrian forcefully pushed himself off the lid of the sarcophagus, fists clenched. He sucked in a sharp breath as something pierced his palm. Flinching, he brought his left hand up to stare, and realized he was still holding the pins he’d previously pried free of their slots. He gazed down at the tiny things for a long moment, the muted sobs coming from within the sarcophagus the only sound in the room. They were quiet, stifled, but they echoed off the high ceiling above him, resonating in his ears until they drowned out every other thought.

Hadrian closed his eyes.

He knew what it felt like to be trapped, smothered in darkness with barely room to breathe or move. For this man, such a terribly long time spent in isolation, he probably had lost track of the years, the centuries. Did he wonder about the outside, too? Did he slowly, with every second spent in a often dazed consciousness and surrounded by black and deadened sounds from beyond his prison, lose hope that sometime, someone would eventually come by and finally, finally save him? Did he keep losing that hope with every passing moment, everything all seemingly timeless and eternal, even after he thought he no longer had any hope to lose, and yet still he felt it draining away, drop by miniscule drop? Did he also see the minute flashes of light from the corners of his eyes, painful in their brightness and their swiftness, only to turn his head and find absolutely nothing there but the forever reaching blackness? Did he also hear phantom noises, screams from far away, voices on the edge of the mind, only to realize later that the screams were his own?

Was this stranger, this pharaoh, this forgotten and long-thought dead king, trapped in his own coffin for so, so long, a kindred spirit?

Hadrian’s hand was on the final pin before he even realized he’d gotten the one before it free, and was gripping it with the others in his fist so tightly that they dug into the skin of his palm, drawing forth droplets of his contaminated blood that sizzled the metal and ran in thin streams down to his wrist. He fiddled almost madly with the damn thing, still stuck in it’s slot, tugging and tugging, mind curiously empty of thoughts and eyes focused avidly on the golden depiction of a king’s face in the sarcophagus’ lid.

At last, the final slid smoothly out of it’s slot, and Hadrian tossed them aside. They hit the solid floor with light, tinny pings that echoed loudly off the vaulted ceiling and high marble walls. The sarcophagus was both still and completely and utterly silent for the first time that night. For a moment, nothing moved, nothing made even a whisper. Hadrian felt the cool stares of the jackal guardians boring into his back through the wide, doorless threshold of the room.

Then, as if the person inside the sarcophagus had finally realized what had happened, there was a strangled yell as it’s lid came flying off and flew across the room to slam into the opposite wall. 

Hadrian flinched back, giving only the smallest worry toward the fact he’d almost been crushed, and prayed that none of the stone hieroglyphic reliefs behind him had been damaged. Hesitantly, reining in his suddenly quickened breathing, he turned his attention to the heavily bandaged figure that was ever so slowly sitting up from within the sarcophagus he’d just tossed the top off of.

There was a great scratching noise, like stone on stone. He glanced back to find that the two giant jackal statues had suddenly come alive once more. They knelt respectfully, right stone fists over their left breasts, so enormous that they had to duck their head and shoulders even lower for their faces to be even halfway seen past the lower arch of the doorway.

Hadrian turned back to regard the silent mummy with a wary look. He took a few steps back, closer to perhaps take shelter behind one of the hieroglyphic displays, as the pharaoh began to haul himself out of his own grave.

Hadrian watched on, wordlessly, as the ancient king stood on his own two feet for the first time in whoever knows how long. As he began to slowly reach for the bandages encasing his body, the wizard found himself wondering what he look like beneath them. Was he like the wax models, like Roosevelt and Sacagawea? Completely healthy flesh and blood and heartbeats? Or was he like Rex, a skeleton of dusty old bones? Or- this was Ancient Egypt, they mummified their dead. He’d never  _ just  _ be  _ bones-  _ was it something in between? His mind brought up visions of dried, crinkling flesh clinging to jerky-like muscles, all of it hanging delicately off the skeleton beneath.

Hadrian shook the grotesque images away, and focused on the pharaoh himself. The bandages finally swung free of his face, and Hadrian was unable to catch a glimpse before he was assaulted by a cloud of dust (and most likely dead skin and- and who  _ knows _ what else?!).

“Ah!” He flinched back, hands moving to rub furiously at his face. He coughed, hoping to dispel whatever he’d accidentally breathed in. There was  _ no  _ way he was catching some long dead Egyptian virus or whatever other pathogens that had been hiding in those bandages for all these years.

“Oh!” A rich voice exclaimed, and Harian paused. It was a soft timbre, with a cultured accent that reminded Hadrian slightly of his home country. The syllable was slightly shaky, as if it’s speaker were trembling.

“I- I am so  _ sorry _ ,” came the lament. “I—“

“D-Did you just,” Hadrian sputtered, reminded that he’d probably just breathed in death itself. He’d been around Death enough to know the entity didn’t surround itself with the cleanest of air. ”Did you just blow dust, sand, and — and  _ pestilence _ at me? Oh my  _ god… _ ”

“I…” The voice said again, hesitantly, and a hand came out of nowhere to carefully brush the air over his shoulder, though not quite going as far as to touch it. Perhaps it was meant to be consoling, but the suddenness of it caused Hadrian to finch back out of mere habit. “I truly am sorry! I had no intention of, um, directing it at you like that. It is just… well, it is incredibly  _ dusty  _ in... there.”

All at once, the pressing feelings, the familiarity, from before came surging to the forefront. It wasn’t pity, of course not- he understood enough to know that pity wasn’t exactly something ones such as they often appreciated. This was kinship, understanding. Probably not enough, considering this man had suffered an extraordinarily longer stint of isolation that Hadrian himself had, but it was an understanding that made a difference. Hadrian now knew without a doubt Roosevelt’s fears was undeniably mistaken.

“... Yes, of course.” He wiped at his eyes and mouth one final time for good measure, then let his hands drop to give him his first look at this King of Egypt. “— Oh.”

This certainly wasn’t what he’d been envisioning.

“...Oh?” Ahkmenrah asked, looking curious. 

Hadrian straightened, standing on his toes as he reached up to gently reach for the other male’s face. The pharaoh blinked slowly at his intentionally telegraphed movements, as if he wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking at, but his honey-jade eyes shuttered closed with a startled gasp as soon as Hadrian’s hand made contact with his skin, cupping his cheek gently.

With careful intention, Hadrian turned the ancient king’s face from side to side, never forcing. Ahkmenrah followed the guidance without any sort of protest, probably not entirely understanding what was happening just yet. There’s a distracted, dazed sort of look to those honey-good eyes. Hadrian remembered what it was like, coming out of the darkness after so long spent trapped and helpless and utterly alone. It took a while for your brain to catch up. His palm met warm, almost feverish skin. 

The pharaoh’s eyes were shut now, but Hadrian could still see the red ringing them, tearing at their edges like wounds. His dark lashes clumped together, damp, still dripping with the remnants of the tear tracks that winded their way through the fine layer of dust coating his angular and aristocratic features. There was a faint crease between his brows, and at the corners of his eyes, as if his expression was often of unattended pain and had finally seen fit to relax a moment.

Beneath his hands, the king abruptly trembled, drawing in a slow, shuddering breath, and Hadrian joined him in breathing out in search of the calm that often escaped them.

He spoke softly, both palms flat against the sides of a face. “Hello.”

“ _ Oh _ ,” Ahkmenrah responded, another breath out in one big gust at the same time. His voice was just one level above positively  _ shattered _ .

Hadrian softly patted that face, and the two eyes opened to stare down at him blearily. 

“... Here,” said the wizard, seeing the king watch in quiet fascination as he reached for his hand. He carefully tugged in the connection, and led him to one of the two wooden museum benches that was set just inside the threshold of the sarcophagus room. 

Carefully, he sat the silent man down, never releasing his hand as he took a seat beside him. He let out a quiet sigh and leaned back against the wall, glancing across the threshold to where the two silent statue guards kept watch on both him and their pharaoh, never blinking or moving even a whisper in any direction. Still as stone.

Lifting his chin, he met the light golden-jade eyes with his own emerald pair, and the two men stared at one another silently for what could have been hours or minutes or seconds. Ahkmenrah’s eyebrows were pulled together ever so slightly, and his head was tilted the barest millimeter to the left, as if he were examining something that was of great curiosity to him, but wasn’t yet sure why exactly it was so puzzling to him.

Hadrian waited, quietly, relaxed and unmoving. Their hands sat between them on the bench fingers still threaded loosely together. All it would take was the slightest shift from the ancient king, and they’d fall apart unheeded, but neither of them were moving an inch.

Hadrian waited, and then Ahkmenrah spoke.

“I thought you were going to leave me in there, too,” he said, so slowly, with such long pauses in between the words, as if he was putting great thought and effort behind each of them. His voice was low, whispering, raw and bleeding in the way that a shark’s skin was against flesh, if it were rubbed the wrong way.

“I heard you begin to take the pins out, and then he - the other one, told you to stop, and… you did.” The words came quicker now, still stilted and jagged, but gaining an insistent edge. Rushed. Hadrian sat quietly. “I started to think you would — but then you… you did not, you  _ stopped _ . And it was quiet again. I thought you had left, like everyone else.”

Hadrian traced his thumb over the knuckles beneath it. It traveled over the broken and chapped skin ever so gently, pressing lightly to staunch the slightest flow of blood that crept out a shredded cut on the back of the hand, just above the ring finger. Ahkmenrah took in a sudden breath and hissed it out slowly, nearly jerking back, but it was obvious he was much too tired to move from his current position.

Hadrian slowly lowered his eyes to the limb that sat uselessly in the other man’s lap. He lifted his free hand, communicating movement, and delicately took the forearm in a loose grip, bringing it over for a closer look. He pushed sandy, deteriorating bandages away from the swollen wrist beneath them, running a calculating eye over the injury and detecting that it was suffering more than just a sprain. 

He traced a light touch across the tender black and purple that was blossoming around the joint, and pulled away when Ahkmenrah let out a low whine. Hadrian didn’t look up at him, instead studying the bruises and abrasions that, if he didn’t know any better, he would have labeled as defensive wounds.

They weren’t defensive, though. They were from beating endlessly against the cold stone lid of his own coffin.

“They will vanish with the next moon,” the pharaoh sitting next to him suddenly said. Hadrian raised his head to glance at him, and saw an open expression of nervousness and wariness on the other man’s features. “The tablet, it heals them in the day.”

“That doesn’t mean much for right now, does it?” Hadrian asked, rather rhetorically, as he purposefully nudged at the broken wrist. It wasn’t a very rough touch, but Ahkmenrah still sucked in a breath and looked like he might start crying because of it.

Hadrian immediately felt guilty, but he refused to regret trying to make a point. “It still hurts, doesn’t it?”

The king eyed him cautiously, looking almost frightened. He seemed to be wondering if he should try and move away from the British wizard or not. 

“It… does, yes.”

“Then it doesn’t matter what the tablet does later. You’re injured,  _ right now _ , and it’s hurting you. That’s what’s important.”

Ahkmenrah looked almost puzzled. “Why?”

Hadrian stared at him for a moment, feeling both incredulous and concerned. The pharaoh shifted in his seat, apparently realizing he may have said something wrong. 

The wizard considered the man in front of him for a moment, thinking about the situation he was in. Ahkmenrah had been trapped in his own sarcophagus for possibly four thousand some odd years, if what the historical information that the plaques throughout the exhibit divulged was true. That would be four thousand years in darkness, isolated from any sense of companionship or interaction, versus the short term of perhaps two decades he had had to live his life. All he had to know was the prison his death had permitted him, for at least two-hundred times the amount of time he’d had to experience living, and socializing, and understanding.

If what Ahkmenrah had said about the tablet’s powers were true, not only did it bring him and the museum exhibits to life every night, but it also healed them when the sun was up and Ahkmenrah (theoretically, Hadrian couldn't be sure just yet) died all over again for the hours of the day that they were dormant. 

Therefore, it was safe for Hadrian to assume that Ahkmenrah had been beating against his sarcophagus lid for thousands of years, suffocated by his own funeral clothes, and most likely breaking his hands and wrists and causing who knew what other injuries to himself over and over again for that entire time. 

No wonder he was confused, being in a state of injury was  _ normal  _ for him. 

“ _ By the Powers that Be, _ ” Hadrian breathed out near silently, closing his eyes for a moment to preserve his composure. 

He opened them again seconds later, after sending up a quick prayer, to see the ancient king observing him expectantly, actually waiting for answer. 

“It’s  _ important _ ,” he said tightly, “because it’s causing you pain, and — don’t you remember what it’s like, to be free of that?”

“No,” Ahkmenrah said, almost immediately, and the promptness caused Hadrian’s breath to hitch. 

There was something absolutely wretched about the young king’s expression, brittle and wry and with the barest hint of an odd smile that curled the corners of his lips up. Like he wasn’t sure how to smile, or it was more of a grimace, like he knew exactly how  _ not _ funny the whole thing was. Or maybe it was incredulousness mixed with dry wit. Why  _ wouldn’t _ Ahkmenrah be in pain, after all? Hadrian felt sick.

“... I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised to hear that,” Hadrian said quietly. Slowly, he released the pharaoh's hands and stood from the bench.

As he rose, Ahkmenrah’s expression suddenly twisted into something that was a mix of unbridled terror, panic, and anxiousness. He jumped up from his own spot on the bench, and completely ignored his broken wrist to grab for Hadrian’s hand once again. His breathing quickened rather dangerously, and his voice was almost strangled as he pleaded.

“I _ beg  _ you, do not... do not leave — Stay?  _ Please _ .”

“I— ” Hadrian stood, frozen in the face of such desperation. He forcefully tore his eyes away from the helpless gaze bearing down on his bleeding heart and focused his own sight once again on the poor state of the pharaoh’s hands and forearms. 

Releasing a short sigh, the wizard gently pushed the distressed man back onto the bench. He pushed back the sleeve of his shirt and got a look at his watch. He blinked in surprise when he noted it was nearly six already. How had the time passed so quickly? It felt like he’s just started his shift not too long ago, but it was already about over now, which —

Hadri’s eyes wandered across the shiny, golden exhibit, landing on the faintly glowing tablet that was piously set into the wall above the sarcophagus. What would happen should the sun rise? He guessed that, come daylight, the magic keeping the exhibits alive would recede once again, considering that it had begun when the sun had set, pretty much on the dot.

Which means, really, he didn’t exactly have  _ time _ to treat the pharaoh's wounds like he wanted to. 

Hadrian had never wished more for his magic than he did in this moment. He could heal the simplest of it all with a snap of his fingers if he could only  _ use _ it. 

He looked up to see the ancient king still staring at him, deep gold eyes sitting next to the wizard looking with an almost blank curiosity. He held his hands carefully in his lap, body positioned uncertainty on the stone bench like he wasn’t sure where to place his own limbs. 

Hadri knew the feeling.

“I have to,” he ends up murmuring, dejectedly, clenching empty hands in the hem of his coat.

Ahkmenrah’s face doesn’t really twist into any sort of expression, but the look in his eyes is forlorn, crushed and, perhaps worst of all, completely unsurprised. His head tilted down and he stared instead at the floor. 

They sit there together without speaking for a moment, and another moment, the silence stretching between them like a rubber band. They both feel when it snaps, and Hadri resisted the urge to bodily flinch.

“I have to go back inside,” Ahkmenrah eventually breathed, words barely there, and Hadrian’s heart clenched horribly in his chest. 

“I …” he began, and then paused, unsure of what to say. There were no words that he can think of that would be at all reassuring in the face of what they both still fear. He reached his hand out and delicately laid it on the king’s forearm, mindful of the angry, red welts that decorate the skin there. The Egyptian turned to him. 

“If everything isn’t the exact same as it was yesterday,” he sighed, biting his lip and wondering how exactly he could word this. “I’ll probably be fired and they’ll hire some other person for this job. I can’t…”

Ahkmenrah watched him. The expression on his face was neither judging or aleiving. There was an exhausted pull at the edges of his eyes that looked far too much like defeat or resignation, and it made Hadri feel sick all over again. 

“I can’t have that,” he whispered, “because… I need to be here. And I  _ want _ to be here… but also,” he let his voice trail off. There was really nothing he can say.

After a moment, Ahkmenrah stood up from the bench and moved away. Hadrian’s shoulders hunch and he continued to stare down at the artfull stone floor beneath them. He felt like he’d be violently ill at any moment. There was a cold, icy feeling swimming around in his chest that kept making stabs up at his throat. He swallowed. 

Warm hands ghost the tips of his ears, as near to the sides of his head as they could get without actually touching. He blinked up at the ancient royal that was knelt on the cold floor before him. Ahkmenrah stared into his eyes, face drawn into something horrifically blank, and Hadri wondered suddenly if he even remembered how physical contact worked.

He carefully reached out his hand to place on the back of Ahkmenrah’s. He met the king’s eye and, ignoring the startled flinch that his touch brings, carefully applied pressure until the warm, tan hand was set against Hadri’s cheek. He held it there until he felt Ahkmenrah loosen the tense set of his shoulders. 

“Do not agonize over it like this,” Ahkmenrah says, voice low and considering. 

Hadri’s eyes snap to his, but the king is looking at the wall away from them, gaze distant. The british wizard doesn’t speak, and soon enough the other man turned back to focus on him… not entirely, but enough for Hadri to know he was trying to look at him, and perhaps wasn’t quite sure how to make eye contact anymore.

Ahkmenrah smiled, something that stretches at the corners of his mouth. It was not a smile, but it looked like it was trying to be. Like it very faintly remembered what a smile is suppose to be, but the muscle’s couldn’t quite figure it out.

“I’ve been in that sarcophagus for thousands of years already,” the king reminded him, and Hadri felt the distant, creeping horror at the realization that he almost hadn’t let the pharaoh free tonight. “Another day is nothing.”

Hadri remained silent, watching the ancient royal lift himself to his feet and gently tug his hand free of Hadri’s loose grip. Bandages were tugged up from where they had fallen to bunch around his neck and slowly wound around his head once more with inching, agonizing movements. He watched Ahkmenrah pause for a moment, staring at the open sarcophagus with a deep, disassociating terror dancing within his eyes. 

“And another night,” he heard the king — a boy, barely older than Hadri himself — whisper to himself, voice cracking, “and another….”

Hadri shoved himself up from the bench and went to stand next to the man as he curled inward on himself, seemingly without realizing it. Green eyes watch the bend of his spine as it curved underneath an invisible, heavy weight. He reached out and placed a hand on the space in between Ahkmenrah’s shoulders, and the young king broke. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sad times feed me

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea AGES ago but never got it out there. I have a bit written beyond this, and even more outlined for future chapters. This is honestly one of my personal favorites of my fic ideas


End file.
